


The Way I Danced With You

by Lue4028



Series: Rites of Passage [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, M/M, Other, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3387209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lue4028/pseuds/Lue4028
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John realizes his daughter is a Johnlocker. Naturally their contending theories on his relationship with Sherlock go head to head. Sherlock is Switzerland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Donning his blazer, John plods down the staircase and strides into the living room with a child in tow, skipping at his heels. John takes notice of Sherlock, lounging supine on the settee with his fingers steepled under his chin and staring at his latest object of fascination, the ceiling.

“Sherlock, have you paid the rent?” he asks as they pass Sherlock on the way to the kitchen. Sherlock is unresponsive, rubbing his aligned forefingers against his open but silent mouth, so John turns to his young companion in quick succession. “Did he pay the rent?”

“He gave me a check and told me to give it Mrs. Hudson, but first to cash it in, take hundred off the top and go buy something called Mal- Malboro?” she says, taking a seat at the counter with a bowl in hand for cereal.

John grumbles and rubs his eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t,” he gripes, pausing by the fridge in a moment of deep discontentment.

“I couldn’t. The lady said she wanted to see my ID. So now he’s sulky.”

“For god’s sake—“ John starts, audibly vexed, but checks himself and resumes at a more docile volume, “how long has he been like that?” he indicates the despondent individual on the settee, who can hear them, surely, but isn’t listening for lack of concern for mortal matters. So it is suitable to continue on as though he’s not there.

“Only since yesterday,” she shrugs.

John glares balefully at the fridge, an innocent bystander nonetheless. “I ought to do him in,” he growls with a weary, strained inflection of voice that betrays nuisance to the point of suffering. He cracks open the fridge and fetches the milk. “ _Really_. I’ve had it with him."

He closes the door and places the milk on the countertop, where she retrieves the carton and blandly pours its contents into the bowl. John has returned to the cabinet and shuffles through the assortment of cereal boxes.

“So dad.”

“Hm?” Having selected a brand, John is withdrawing a box from the shelf of cereals.

“Why do we share a flat with Sherlock anyway?” she asks casually, out of the blue.

“What d’you mean, why do we share a flat?" John replies monotonously, pouring the cereal into the bowl, "We’ve always shared a flat. It’s Sherlock. That’s what we do. We share a flat with him.” 

“Yeah. I… gathered,” she says then blinks up at him, “But why is he here? Like what’s his point?”

“What’s his _point_?” John asks, blinking back at her. 

“If he actually paid rent, that'd be one thing- I mean, having a roommate makes sense as long as they help pay the bills and don’t try to sabotage you when you do. But Sherlock doesn’t do either of those things.”

  
John creases his eyebrows, and shakes his head minutely. “What are you getting at?”

A few seconds elapse before she resigns in defeat. “I think we need to have a talk about sex,” she says.

“It’s kind of early for that isn’t it?” John asks, taking a seat across from her.

“It’s actually kind of late.”

“You’re ten years old,” John says, a little baffled, “I don’t even think you’re supposed to know what that is.”

“Exactly. I’m ten years old. You have a ten-year-old child with him.”

John doesn’t seem to understand what this means and stares at her with a sort of blank, lost look on his face.  
“Not for late for me Dad, late for you,” she spells out for him. John looks surprised if not somewhat amused when he realizes he's meant to be on the receiving end of this 'talk', “You would think by this point you would be past all this denial.

“Denial?” John asks, he checks the time on his phone, and gets sidetracked into the living room looking for his workbag, “What are you talking about?"

“I couldn’t help but notice, dad, that you are in love with your—our— ‘flatmate’?” Air quotes.

John, rummaging through the closet for his coat, pauses to process this.

“In love,” he says after an air of silence, standing in the kitchenette doorway, “You think I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes, the mutant drug addict freeloader on our sofa.” He points his thumb over his shoulder, in Sherlock’s general direction.

“Yes, Dad. It’s obvious. Everyone on the block thinks it— Even Hudders—“

John puts his hand up. “I don’t need to hear what Hudders thinks, ok I know what she thinks-"

“It’s not just Hudders. My friends think it, their moms and dads think it, even my teachers— even the principal— thinks it. Basically I’m just trying to understand how we became a family in first place without you knowing what everyone else seems to know.”

 

John stares at her for a long minute, like he's very, very perplexed. When he finally responds, he sounds like a sloth.

“I..’m sorry... family?” John tilts his head, eyebrows contorting a tinge. It's the last part that confuses him most of all.

“What?”

“You said family.”

“Yes.”

“You think, the three of us, are a family,” he concludes, with deliberate slowness.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” John reaffirms, positioning his fingertips on the surface of the table and looking back up at her, “So… not only do you think that Sherlock and I are together but you think.. that we are your parents.”

“Aren’t you?” She looks worried.

“Of course I am but he’s not—“ he stammers, but then his world begins to reel, "You can’t think Sherlock is your _father_?”

“But he is my father.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Why would you say that?” she retorts, taking offense, “Of course he’s my father. Always has been.”

“Darling, he’s not—“ he begins, then starts laughing uncontrollably, burying his head in his hand, “oh please stop.”

“He is!” she yells, flustered. Thankfully, Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind the potentially disruptive increase in volume.

“No he’s not!” John renounces, half laughing at the absurdity.

“God, dad!” she exhales in sheer frustration, taking her fingers out of her hair.

 “What is he doing here, if he’s not my dad?” she demands, throwing a hand out toward Sherlock in indication,

"why do we live together in a flat? Why do we eat dinner together? And lunch? And breakfast? Why does he help me with my homework and tie my laces and brush my hair? Why do I sleep in his bed when I have nightmares if he’s _not my dad_?”

“Mary, those things don’t make him your father.”

“Then what does?!” 

“Ok. Listen. You remember your mother, don’t you?” John levels with her. She crosses her arms defiantly.

“I don’t have a mother,” she replies, glaring holes in the wall.

“Of course you do. You’ve seen pictures.”

“She’s not my mother, Dad,” she snaps suddenly, eyes darting to his. “You’re married to Sherlock!” she blurts out, not entirely intentionally, and then it goes very silent. Good for brainwork.

“How in the hell—"John pulls himself together and begins again.

“No I’m not,” he articulates, “See— no I’m not. You remember the wedding videos?”

“What about them?” she retorts uninterestedly.

“That was me getting married to your mother,” John explains.

"Dad that was you getting married to Sherlock,” she explains.

John stares, elbows resting against the table, rubbing the fingers of his left hand together.

“Ok.”

“I see that there is some major confusion about this that we will have to address later,” he says standing and pushing in his chair, “But right now I have to get to work, okay?” he says tersely, giving her a kiss on the head. He then grabs his keys and bag, making his exit out the door shortly after.  

Mary wanders back into the living room, finding Sherlock motionless on the settee. “You _are_ my dad, aren’t you?”

“What would that entail exactly?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow skeptically at the ceiling.

“I dunno. Did you have a dad?”

“Yes.”

“You could do what he did.”

“God no.”

“Well I don’t think you have to do anything special really.”

“No?”

“You can keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Fair enough. Deal.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Now come here, darling—“ he extends an arm in her general direction, “I need your opinion on this blood spatter pattern.”

She scrambles into his arms, setting her head against his shoulder and they look at the various contents of the file splayed out on his lap together. “It looks like a rabbit.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Sherlock mutters, head propped against the arm of the sofa and arms extending forward, tilting his head and the photograph at various angles thoughtfully.


	2. 2

Sherlock, John, and Mary are sitting in front of the telly, watching the disputed events of ten years prior play out before their eyes. They run through the footage with unwavering concentration, until it finally breaks into static. John sets the tape on rewind with the VCR remote. Silence spans indefinitely as the tape runs skittishly backwards, until Sherlock eventually breaks it.

 

“So,” he admits, a little bashfully, “For all my deductive powers, I am unable to eliminate the possibility you may be marrying the tall one.” He points to a figure that looks remarkably like himself, rapidly walking backward down the center of the room and reverse deducing the identity of the mayfly man's target.

“The tall one? Sherlock, that is _you._ You were there!” John flails wildly.

“Was I? God that was a long time ago,” Sherlock mutters dismissively.

“Sherlock, you have an eidetic memory with better recall than the bloody camera,” John informs him with hundred percent certitude, “I think you can _remember_ who I got married to.”

“Well, it’s of little use here, John, as my memory deletes everything that’s irrelevant.”

“Our wedding was not—“ John stops, then corrects himself. “ _Mary and my_ wedding could not have been filed under _irrelevant_ ,” he says with conviction.

“Well it must have been because it’s not here,” Sherlock indicates his temple then flourishes his hand helplessly. John narrows his eyes at him haughtily, knowing that if this had been a case file that had casually disappeared, Sherlock would be going ballistic.

 

“What is wrong with you? How can you be content not knowing whether you’re married— to me no less?” John demands, uncomprehending, “Don’t you remember famously deducing our daughter's-- _Mary and my_ daughters existence?” he indicates Mary.

“Even if I did remember,” Sherlock concedes, “hearsay carries very little weight in an investigation, John. Even you can appreciate that—”

“It’s not hearsay if you’re saying it it’s as good as gospel; just spit it out,” John interrupts while Sherlock continues talking.

“—People almost always lie if not intentionally then by confabulation—”

“And you’re prone to that, are you? Confabulation,” John scoffs, amazed that a man of science can be this dually talented at bullshitting, “How about lying by omission?”

“It just makes for a much cleaner line of reasoning, should we refrain from letting the personal biases of witness accounts cloud our judgment. That is, given we have an alternative, more objective source of information," he signifies the television set, "And the fact remains that the footage is very ambiguous—”

“The footage is _ambiguous,”_ John tells him quaintly, “because you high jacked the wedding then arrested the camera man before he could shoot the whole thing.”

 

“Oh,” Sherlock realizes, then waves him off, “Even so. Our daughter has a case.”

John can’t believe his ears. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous. It’s a matter of fact, John. It can’t be argued.”

“ _Our_ daughter? _Our_? Really?” John asks, bemusedly irritated, “When did you decide on that? In the four hours I went to work?” He asks with lofty, casual pleasantness.

“Well, she has a point,” Sherlock confesses, “I seem to be fulfilling the job description without having been granted the title.”

 

“Sherlock,” John quips, looking like he could just about snap the brunet in two, “do you honestly think you could be a father?”

“Well..” He muses though he already has the answer, then steals a glance at Mary. “If Mary says so,” he smiles, taking her in his hands so they are nose to nose, “Didn’t you say so, darling?”

“I did actually, Dad.” She might be referring to her father, but it seems increasingly apparent she’s referring to Sherlock because they’re staring at each other with blinking-contest incessancy. They have a moment, naturally, because Mary has never called Sherlock _Dad_ before.

 

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” John remarks at their adorable little digression, and they both look back to him with innocent, inquisitive eyes.

“Is this what you want her to think? Is this how you want her to remember Mary?” John asks, rising to his feet and turning his attention to his daughter.

“That’s fine Sherlock,” John snips, writing him off, “but Mary, as you will inevitability observe— I don’t love him and I never will love him like I loved your mother,” he declares, then done with his rant, turns on his heel and takes his exit.

The smile vanishes from Sherlock's face and he pauses, processing that, which Mary sees and interprets as hurt. She turns on her father, who is making his way across the living room.

 

“Why does she even matter, Dad? She’s dead—“ Sherlock system-resumes to full alertness and quickly covers Mary’s mouth.

John stops in his tracks. He turns back partway, then haults, paused in the middle of the room. Then he turns his head, and leaves, through the front door and down the staircase.

Sherlock looks down at Mary.

"What?" she says.

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock is finishing the dishes. He does that now. It’s weird. John is seated in his chair, staring melancholically at the fireplace. Mary has long since retired to the upstairs bedroom for the evening, which now may be venturing into the early hours of the morning.

“That was all you needed to say,” Sherlock says, turning around once finished. He leans against the counter, wiping his hands with a checkered kitchen towel.

John raises his eyes questioningly at him.

“Instead of _the two people I love most in the world_. All you had to do was indicate her over...” he trails, then resumes, “Then it would have removed any degree of uncertainty.”

“Right,” John nods in stoic concurrence. Sherlock stands there, wiping his fingers. The fabric, tossing from hand to hand, weaves in and out between his digits with deliberate efficiency. The silence draws attention to his brisk, mechanistic movements, and makes John restless. The whole atmosphere feels oppressive.

 

“Sherlock—“ John starts painfully, catching Sherlock’s gaze meaningfully.

He’s about to say something stupid and Sherlock catches him. “John _please_ ,” he sneers in conceit. “ _Think_ before you speak,” he sighs exasperatedly, waving him off.

“Yeah. Silly me.” John rolls his eyes. It should be obvious that there’s no need to apologize for implausibly offending the feelings of an _automaton_.

 

“I’m merely offering an impartial perspective,” he says, stepping over the kitchenette tiles, still drying his hands, before discarding the towel on the counter and entering the living room, “On your competing affections for the two characters represented in the video.”

“So. Characters now,” the words twist bitterly in his mouth and he grimaces, letting Sherlock know this really isn’t what he needs to hear right now.

“In the interest of what I can only view as an academic exercise.” Sherlock tags on, leaning back on the doorframe leading to kitchen interior.  

“An academic exercise,” John voice is tenuously raw, “You really are the king of detachment.”

 

Sherlock senses he’s pushed John a little too far and stops talking. John remains painstakingly quiet. Eventually Sherlock feels the need to console him.

“Tea?”

“No thanks.”

Okay, so he’s pushed him _much_ too far.

Sherlock travels to his chair, touching his fingers against the armrest. John sits still, deeply introspective, until eventually he returns Sherlock concern with a difficult admission.

“She doesn’t know her mother,” John says tersely, stiffly.

“It’s better if she doesn’t know,” Sherlock states tonelessly.

John looks at him, startled.

 

“Unless you want the person you love the most to suffer like you are, unless you want to put that on them—” Sherlock warns him, kneeling down to eye level.

“Suffer in silence. So they won’t hear,” John listens to Sherlock say. Sherlock is staring at him intently, eyes intense, compelling, geared to persuade.

 

“So she won't hear or you won't hear?” John tries to rise from his chair, but Sherlock clutches his arm, “—John—”“—Sherlock if my feelings annoy you, or make you jealous like Mary wants us to believe— I've said it before, you're free to leave,” he declares emotively, pain spurring him to act out. He whirls his hands expressively, then shunts his fists to his sides in a demonstration of anger, but really it’s a demonstration of pain.

“On the contrary, John,” Sherlock smirks, irises burning in the ambient firelight, “I’m listening. Always listening." He sinks back on his heels. "And I’m not liable to leave.”

John leans back into his chair, turning away in a huff and resting his head on his hand in a grand gesture of “whatever.”


	3. 3

Five years later…

 

John strides into the waiting room of the clinic at a brisk pace, ready to see his next patient. He plops manila folder to a mesh wire bin situated on the administrative desk, where he recognizes one individual amongst the assorted crowd of drop-ins, a teenage boy coincidently seated closest in the line of chairs to him.

“Oh hello Nigel,” John says.

Nigel looks startled. “Hey…Mister… Watson,” he says tenuously.

“Come with me. I’ll take a look at you,” John beams, setting off down the corridor.

“Uh…” Nigel remains seated for a moment, looking dumbfounded and little ragged around the edges, before he scrambles to his feet and follows John toward the examination rooms.

 

“How’s school going? Mary told me you’re into football,” John turns back at him with an affable smile, “That’s not what put you’re here is it?”

“Not exactly.”

They enter the second to last room on the left of the hallway, where John heads to the counter where he retrieves a spare manila file. Nigel files in behind him.

“Lemme grab your file here. So what are you in for?” He says, leafing through his file.

“Um, funny story that…” Nigel says shiftily.

John glances at him between pages, and does a brief double take, noticing the lack of motility in the boys arm. “Looks like you have pain in your right shoulder. Mind if I have a look?”

“Um." The boy's eyebrows converge confusedly, as John's request seems to have placed him in a slight predicament. He raises one arm tentatively, unable to use the other, and hesitates removing his shirt awkwardly.

“Oh, I’ve got it,” John says, walking over and taking a seat on the roller stool for a lower vantage point. John can readily see the boy's shoulders are misaligned and has already formulated a diagnosis, but he lifts his shirt for him so he can take a look anyway.

 

“What happened? Did you get into a fight?” John asks.

“It was more of an accident,” he amends.

“Gosh, you broke it clean in two,” John remarks.

“What?” Nigel blinks.

 “Yep,” John decides, replacing his shirt and rolling back, “Sorry it looks like you’re going to be out for six weeks.” He clicks his pocket pen and beings to scroll on a prescription slip.

“Six weeks—?!” the youth stammers in shock.

“I’m afraid so," John says, finishing a line, "How’s the pain?”

“Well, it’s—“ Nigel standoffishly tries to fumble for an understatement, but John raises eyebrows in a plea to spare him the deceit.

“Bad.”

“Yeah,” John offers a sympathetic smile and fills out the rest of the paper slip, “I’m going to put you on pain killers and we’ll set you up with a sling.”

“And we should call your parents,” John adds, replacing his ballpoint in his pocket.

“Uh th-that’s not necessary,” the adolescent stammers out hastily.

“It’s a full-on break, Nigel,” John states clean and simple, rising to his feet, “They’re going to find out.”

 

Nigel, deathly pale and uncomfortable, looks at John like his tongue’s been clipped out of him.

“Ok, what’s the deal?” John deflates, trying a straight forward approach, “It can’t be that bad.”

"I really think it can,” Nigel insists.

“Oh, come on. You can tell me. It can't be more embarrassing than how my flatmate broke his sternum.” John reviews the memory in his head with some consternation, “Or…tried to anyway."

Nigels shakes his head vigorously, with every intention of taking it to the grave. John hums with a minimal, lackluster smile.

 

“With so much reluctance, it can only be one thing." 

“What?” Nigel asks.

"It was a girl, wasn’t it?”

 

Nigel plants his face in his able hand. John’s cellular begins chiming, and Nigel gradually removes his face from his hand, looking at Johns lab coat pocket. 

“Yeah. It’s alright. These things happen,” John pats him on the head and stands to make his leave.

“–Hello?” he says, taking his phone out as he exits, but pauses momentarily in the doorframe when he sees the bizarre look on Nigel’s face. His eyebrows creasing perplexedly in response, android pressed to his ear.

 

<<Sorry to pull you out of work, Doctor, but there was an incident at school today…>>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mary is walking back to her locker during lunch period with a calculus textbook in hand, when she turns a corner and subsequently falls face flat on the pavement. A couple of twerps start snickering in the background as she peels her face off the cement. One of them is her contemporary Nigel, feeling oh-so-clever for extending his leg for her to trip over. Nigel allegedly enjoys picking on Mary for allegedly being lesbian.

“What’s the matter, Watson?” he asks, “Didn’t look where you were going?” And they giggle at that too.

Mary doesn’t deign to respond, merely glares, scoffing internally at his pettiness.

"If you think you’re the man, why don’t you get up a fight like one?”

And gradually the surrounding crowd begins to chant in approval, “Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.” 

Mary raises her eyebrows at the suggestion. “Oh I can do better than that,” she says, pushing off the floor to her feet.

“Is this your girlfriend?” she asks, putting a hand on the shoulder of the brunette standing across from him and pointing to her.

“Yeah,” Nigel retorts snottily. He eyes her askance, not seeing her point.

Without any warning, Mary kisses his girlfriend in front of him for a seasonable length of time, then leaves the pair of them aghast and wide-eyed as she walks off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later that day, Mary discovers Sherlock loitering by the schoolyard fence on her way to the gym. She stops and backpedals, eyes narrowing in on his distant, aimless, wandering figure.

 “Sherlock, what are you doing here?” she asks as she approaches the wire-mesh fence. He looks trim and dapper and horribly misplaced.

 “I got bored.”

 “Didn’t John have anything to say about it?”

 “He’s working.”

 “Oh.”

 

“So, shall we go look around for murder?” Sherlock proposes, naturally.

“Um.” Mary hesitates at this, and seems increasingly wary of someone seeing them.

Sherlock looks perplexed. “What? What’s wrong?”

Mary looks up at him cheekily without a response, tongue-tied.

"Oh. Okay. I see how it is,” Sherlock says playfully, then haughtily plods off from whence he came.

 

“What? Hey, come back—” Mary laughs at his ridiculously abrupt and nonsensical mood swing, but feels obliged to call after him anyway. Despite her efforts to make amends, he continues several more paces toward the parking lot, acting miffed. “Are you serious?” she implores, stuck behind the fence.

 

“Hey Watson!” Sherlock hears someone yell, so he turns around, family name and all.

“Who are you talking to?” they inquire contemptuously. Mary rolls her eyes in annoyance at their approaching interloper. Sherlock steps toward the gate again to get a look at the child who has summoned their attention.

“Nobody. Mind your own business Nigel,” Mary glowers.

 

“Is that your boyfriend?” Nigel asks sassily, as Sherlock comes into view for him. Mary doesn’t betray a response to that. 

“So are you the other one, then?” Sherlock returns out of curiosity, arms crossed and perfectly poised. The remark seems to baffle the youth.

“The other one? What are you talking about,” Nigel narrows his eyes at him skeptically. “Who is this guy; he’s weird,” he says to Mary.

 

“Can’t you tell?” Sherlock asks. 

“Do you deal weed?” Nigel hazards a guess.

“No. I’m a parent retrieving my daughter from school. Isn’t that routine?”

 

A smirk cracks open on Nigel’s face at that. “You’re not a parent,” he scoffs patronizingly. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock asks keenly.

“You look like chick bait.”

“Chick bait?” Sherlock demands, taken aback, although he has no idea what that means. He looks to Mary for a translation, but she shrugs helplessly, shaking her head at the nonsense. Apparently the boy doesn’t make any sense to her either.

 

“So who’s parent are you, allegedly? Not hers.” Nigel shrugs and points to Mary. Sherlock and Mary voice their replies at the same time.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Sherlock eyebrows converge in confusion at his daughter.

 

“Wait what…?” Nigel trails, taken aback.

“Problem?” Sherlock ventures inquiringly in response to the overt confusion on the adolescent’s face.

“Isn’t your dad Dr. Watson?” Nigel asks Mary. Mary doesn’t say anything, arms crossed, chewing on her tongue.

 

“No way…” Nigel teems wide-eyed and mind-blown, thrilled at his discovery, “You have two dads!” 

“Yes.. One plus one equals two. Congratulations, you can do the math,” Sherlock drawls boredly, “There may be hope for you yet.”

“No wonder you’re—!“ Nigel says excitedly.

“Yes, alright. I have two dads. Get over yourself,” Mary tells him apathetically.

 

 

“Oh my god. This explains so much. I’m so sorry for pissing on you for being gay. I didn’t know your dad was a faggot,” Nigel laughs, and oh boy does that elicit a dark look from Mary.

 

Nigel’s error in word choice presents Sherlock with a new fatherly challenge that he has not encountered before. How to split up a fight. Noting that boys generally excel in height and strength relative to girls starting at age 14, Sherlock is hoping the boy at the approximate age of 15 and 4 months, will be able to defend himself, but unfortunately that isn’t the case.

Mary tackles and rams the Nigel into the floor with such violence the sound of collision makes Sherlock wince. With no alternative mode of action available to him, Sherlock is ultimately reduced to standing idly behind the wire fence and forced to watch the proceedings helplessly, hands in his pockets, unbudging.

 

 

 

 

 

John, Sherlock, and Mary are seated in the head administrators office.They all seem particularly interested in the unremarkable, ashen grey walls of the room. John stares ahead to one portion of the wall, spine ram-rod straight, rubbing the digits of his left hand together. He turns his gaze over to the other wall with a playful tilt of the head and discovers, yes, he does like eggshell white as a wall paint color.

“So. Anyone wanna explain to me what the hell happened,” John chirps.

Sherlock blinks up at the wall, then sideways to Mary, who blinks back at him. There is an unspoken consensus, that this cannot be explained.

“No?”

It rings true in the pin-drop silence.

“You broke his collarbone!” John explodes in outrage, standing from his chair.

“And you,” he turns at Sherlock, “You just stood there and let it happen _five feet_ in front of you,” he reels vehemently. It is one of those rare occasions where Sherlock seems to be at a loss for a witty response, or, in fact, any response at all.

“How? How, Sherlock? How does that happen?"

“And what were you doing Mary? This isn’t like you,” he says in confusion. “I know I didn’t raise you to go and put people in the hospital for no bloody reason,” he conto use, “And I sure as hell didn’t raise you to undo my own job.”

"What aren't you telling me?" He demands finally in exasperation, warranting no response other that Sherlock clearing his throat and adjusting his collar. Mary fidgets with her thumbs.

John sighs in defeat and heads to the door. Mary and Sherlock follow, but then he turns around, hand on the knob.

"Okay, let's just... put it behind us. We're going to pretend it never happened. And it will never happen again. All in agreement?"

Mary and Sherlock nod enthusiastically, and John is a bit puzzled by the overt display of obedience. He looks between them, his suspicions roused. Are they usually this quiet?

 

“So what do we think about this Nigel person?” Sherlock asks as they file out of the office, John a pace ahead.

“What do we think? Were you not just here for the past ten minutes? We hate his guts, obviously.”

“Shame really,” Sherlock contemplates, “Seeing that he’s nursing a bit of a crush on you.”

“Dear lord,” she drawls, aghast, “You’re loosing it, old man.”

“Am I now?” Sherlock grins.


	4. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm breaking the final part up into scenes because it's too long for me to do in one go. I get tired after about 1000 words. That last chap was a stretch. v.v also, if you want faster updates, do ask.

5 years later…

The kitchenette is bathed in mournful, austere grayscale, poorly lit with weak hints of light glancing off the overcast sky, fading in through the pale-beamed aperture of the window. The dilution of light gives the illusion of timelessness, casting a dark slumber over the various culinary and experimental artifacts that occasion the counter- boxes of unrefrigerated tissue samples, dispersed groceries, an unsheathed kitchen knife…

Briskly and dourly, without so much as the sound of a footfall, John strides into the room in a pristinely ironed shirt, heavy denim, and burgundy dress loafers. The soldier is freshly groomed, with a clean shaven, set jaw and damp, neatly parted, cropped hair cutting a sharp angle against the nape of his neck. He neglects to turn on the overhead light as his surroundings, while colorless, are just visible.

John swiftly parses out and disposes of most of the tissue collection, relocating some of the salvageable specimens to the fridge. He cleans the knife under the faucet, wipes it dry with unerring deftness, and shunts the blade into its holster in the knife set. He grips the handle of the lackluster kettle situated on the stove, divests its contents into the sink, sets it on the base of the basin, and flips the tap. As he sets his hands against the counter, scalding hot water rushes into the kettle at a streamline pace, hissing softly.

The evident truth that belies all these actions: John Watson has decided to partake in intensely passive-aggressive practice of angst dishwashing, as patented by his fellow flatmate and co-parent, Sherlock Holmes.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Mary emerges in the doorway to the kitchenette, wearing an ankle-length underdress. John has his back to her. “What are you wearing.” she remarks at his office attire.

“Look, I know that we’ve had a bit of a falling out but you can’t just…”

“...Are you really not coming?”

John leans his hands against the counter, his head angled downward, his jaw wired shut. Steam travels upward from the basin, catching the glare of the clouds.

“Why? Why are you doing this? Would you at least talk to me? What have I done to piss you off this much?”

Water begins flooding over the brim of the kettle.

  
“Dad, please—!” she raises her voice.

“You don’t need me,” he snaps finally, the sound of his voice giving Mary a jolt, “Not for this.”


	5. 6

The hallway of the second level is essentially all dark, the doorway to upstairs bedroom sealed closed and preventing most light entry. Cloaked in duskiness, Sherlock is impatiently leaning next to the doorway to the upstairs bedroom, unable to contain himself. He hates waiting.

 

“Mary?” he turns his head and asks through the door.

  
Sherlock sighs wearily at the ceiling with the lack of response, arms resting flat against the wall, then turns and barges into the room at the speed of light.

  
“Come on, sport,” he says, traversing the monotone, light-bleached room to close the drafty window facing the street, “If we’re late, they’ll assume you opted out and bail.”

 

Sherlock catches her seated on the floor by the beside, face-planted into the duvet, arms crossed in front of her over the linens. She has finished getting dressed, as what Sherlock was likely waiting for, in an embroidered, iridescent-beige wedding dress. Her flaxen, shoulder-length hair interweaves with the wrinkles in the bedclothes and shields her face from view.

  
“Are you really crying?” Sherlock enquires in amazement, rounding the bend of the mattress. The window-light reveals he is in formal attire, a dress shirt, sharply-cut, pleated navy trousers and black wingtips. “That’s not very English,” he tsks.

 

“I don’t care,” she retorts icily, apparently not in the mood.

 

Having grown weary of having to pick John's messes up off the floor day in and day out, Sherlock sighs taxedly, tossing a rogue gaze aside, one hand on the bed the other resting on his waist. Then, with a spurt of agility, he bends over, scoops her up in his hands, and falls back effortlessly to a seat on the bed. The material of her gown, a wispy, gossamer layer over white-gold satin, curves over the bend in his elbow, tugging wrinkles into the stiff starch of his shirt, and tumbles over the bleach white sheets.

  
“He’s not going,” she says blandly, head leaning on his shoulder, the weight of her back against his forearm.

  
“Oh, I calculate he’ll come. He’s wrestling with the fact he’s not the love of your life. He’ll get over it,” Sherlock replies, all nonchalance.

  
“How do you calculate that?” she asks in dismay, “He won’t even talk to me. I’m resigned to say he just hates me.”  


Sherlock rolls his eyes in incredulity and lifts his head. “Don’t be silly,” he says in exasperation and corrects her emotively, “He hates your _fiancé_.” He turns, chin tucking in, to look at her directly.

  
“Why!” she reels in incomprehension and comes face to face, gritting her teeth, “Why can’t he just be happy for me like a normal parent?”

  
“I seem to recall he was supportive of some of your previous relationships,” Sherlock offers as a consolation.

  
“Then what makes this one different?” she wants to know, “That it’s a man?”

  
“Perhaps. It’s possible he feels that he’s being replaced. Or that he finds girlfriends are more amiable. I have no idea,” says Sherlock, pretending he has no idea.

  
“That’s so stupid,” she resigns, thudding her temple against his chest.

  
“He’s only human,” Sherlock remarks factually, directing his insight to the wall, “You can’t expect him to be perfect.”

  
“Is that what you tell yourself?” she asks in frustration, then immediately regrets it, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  
“We have a mutual understanding where I leave the being human to him and he leaves the being perfect to me,” Sherlock smirks softly, and so does Mary.

  
Then Sherlock becomes hesitant, reluctant even. “In truth, I think it makes him miss you,” he risks saying.

  
“Aren’t you going to miss me?” 

  
“Please,” Sherlock scoffs at the laughable idea, “Don’t you know me? Do I strike you as that kind of _despicable-sentimental?_ ” he asks, facing her again.

  
Mary grins irrepressibly at him. “Well, I’m going to miss you,” she says. Then in part out of a cheeky interest to see his reaction, she says, “I despicably love you.”

  
Sherlock’s only-human gaze is affected with latent tenderness, but he doesn’t falter. “I gather,” he responds, “that this is one of those ‘beautiful moments’ but I have a wedding to get to so—”

  
Mary giggles at him. “Perfect. You really are perfect,” she grins, completely besotted by him, “Can’t I marry you?”

  
Sherlock contemplates it. “That would make your father even more cross, wouldn’t it?” he asks thoughtfully, tracing causation, as he’s good at doing. 


	6. 7

Sherlock and Mary arrive arm in arm at the base of a cascade of steps leading to the church entryway, Sherlock dressed in the battle-wear of his former days, his collar shirt adorned with silver necktie and waistcoat and furnished by a navy frock suit, and Mary in her aforementioned bride uniform, a lace and satin, full-length wedding gown with a silver cinch at the midsection. Towering above them, the church displays a bold exterior in the harsh, cold light, with an elaborate stone steeple erected and powerful pillars supporting its conglomerate structure.

As they stare up at its redoubtable facade,

 “You don’t need to be nervous,” Sherlock states intrepidly, taking the first step, “I approximate there are nine and twenty ways you could mess this up, only seventeen of which would be completely detrimental and irrevocable.”

“Did you want to let me in on what those are?” she asks as they walk up together, uniforms beautifully matching and glinting against the eerie, foggy backdrop, shoes scaling the slight incline of the quietly vibrant white steps in unison.

“We don’t want it to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Just stick to your lines, don’t say anything interpretable as atheist or unheterosexual. It’s probably best to just avoid the mother-in-law completely—“ They finish their ascent up the flight of stairs and discover a few miscellaneous relatives of the groom at the entrance. Sherlock’s voice becomes quieter and quieter as they approach the doorway. “—but if you do accidentally walk into her just be polite and say hello—Hello,” Sherlock greets a particularly stark figure at the door.

“Hello,” Mary copies him.

“Hello,” the groom’s mother replies. She is impeccably dressed in a grey satin attire that resonates with her silver hair, sporting a high collar, sharp shoulder pads, and a knee-length skirt. “So glad you decided to show, Mary,” she smiles warmly, the forced emotion in her voice piercing to the ear, “We were worried you wouldn’t make it.”

Her steely eyes shift gracefully over to Sherlock, harboring a contained look like that of a provoked rattlesnake. “And you brought your..”

“Father,” Sherlock supplies, his eyes softly, unfazedly alight with mirth as they return her scathing glare.

She swallows, tendons of the neck semi-visible. “Right,” she is compelled to concede, lips pursed, face taught with repugnance, “Well.”

“Lets get this over with,” she decides, eyes thinning as her lips tighten into a smile, “shall we?”

“Gladly,” Mary consents with a false, hateful smile that’s painfully obvious, then makes a move for the doorway.

“Oh and Mary—“ the mother begins, reclaiming Mary’s attention.

“You look beautiful,” she says, which is a euphemism for worser things, most probably along the lines of 'I despise you to your core'. Mary feels her blood run cold at the venom of her mother-in-law’s voice.

“Thank you,” Mary manages, trying not to crack her teeth.

“As do you, Mrs. Davenport.” Thankfully well-versed in underhand verbal sparing between family members, Sherlock returns the compliment with a smile and head tilt toward Mary, deftly employing the familial vernacular for ‘the sentiment is mutual’.

“If you’ll excuse us?” he inquires with a beautiful smile indistinguishable from a genuine one, placing a hand on Mary’s shoulder and disappearing into the archway entrance along side her.


	7. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very called-for theme song for the two chapters sandwiching this comment: [Take Me to Church](https://vimeo.com/118946875)  
> ;D

White light filters into the church through the apertures between sculpted pillars, under entryway arches, and through the glass windowpanes of the church, emanating from the cloud cover overhead. The foreground is populated with a few integral figures, amongst them the priest and the groom.

“You wore a dress,” Nigel remarks upon Mary and Sherlock’s entrance, befuddled. They take down the few entry steps and arrive beside him, amoungst the various, formal-attire attendees. 

“Yeah, why not? It’s pretty,” Mary decides, admiring its classic shade of white-gold, and giving the hem a twirl.

Nigel looks amused. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

“I think I did. I didn’t want your parents to boycott too.”

“Your dad isn’t coming?” he asks.

“It remains to be seen,” Sherlock mutters off-handedly, glancing vaguely at the grim weather outside, "whether or not my better half will show," his attention returns to Nigel and he smiles. 

Nigel looks somewhat discontented.

“He’s being stubborn," Mary explains.

“I’m sorry,” Nigel offers his consolations, feeling partly responsible. 

“What for? It’s entirely his fault if he wants to be a jerk, not yours," she replies a little too harshly, then checks herself and resumes listlessly, " Forget him. It’s better he isn’t here.”

“Is it really?” Sherlock drawls implicatively, eyes redirecting to something particularly interesting at the entryway. Nigel follows his line of sight, then taps Mary's shoulder, turning her around to reveal John's opportune arrival. He stands at the entrance, detained by Mrs. Davenport, in a black suit with subtle oxblood undertones that give his hair a lighter, flaxen property.

 

“Speaking of the devil,” Sherlock smiles.

“He looks like hell,” Nigel says immediately.

“I suspect he’s brought it with him,” Sherlock concurs, a sly smirk curving on his features. It's a recipe for disaster.

 

 

“Oh. Dr. Watson. What a surprise! We didn’t see you at the rehearsal dinner,” Mrs. Davenport remarked shrilly when she caught sight of John, masking her hysterics with feigned delight to see him. 

“You did not,” he confirms with his genial smile, offering no explanation. 

“So. That makes two of you. Here. Together,” she goes on to remark cheerily, with pointed punctuation, “In a church, no less.”

John looks at her quizzically; a minute squint under delving eyebrows, a polite, slightly slanted smile on his lips, and a slight tilt of the head so that his hazel gaze becomes sidelong in indication he doesn’t quite follow. Two of what? What does it matter if they're in a church? Did Sherlock say something sacrilegious to make her think both Sherlock and he are atheists or something?

“In any case, it's wonderful to see you again, Doctor," she smiles, "So glad you could make it.”

“Likewise.”

“Well, we might as well head in, shall we?”

“After you.”

Mrs. Davenport makes a beeline for the alcohol, which was brought out early, given the excruciating circumstances of the wedding, and John follows suit. As Ms. Davernport passes them she eyes Mary with unbridled indignation, nostrils a-flare, jaw screwed taught, shoulders visibly tense. Mary regards her vitriolic glare with comical innocence.

“He’s never actually killed anyone has he?” Nigel whispers to Sherlock, as John treads down the entrance stairs. 

Sherlock looks at Nigel tellingly, with raised eyebrows.

Mary looks shocked. "What, seriously?" 

Nigel returns Sherlock's gaze with increasing nervousness, until he turns his head to discover John is already upon them.

“Mr. Watson! L-ovely day for the wedding, isn’t it?” Nigel beams at him. John looks vaguely amused.

“It's overcast. I’m inclined to say we picked a rather bad day." Sherlock looks vaguey intrigued, like he's detected a blip on some sort of imaginary radar he's got going. He ventures a sidelong look at John,  face blank and eyebrows risen in mild curiosity.

Nigel laughs. “Hopefully it’ll clear up.”

John laughs. “Oh, I hope so. For your sake.”

Sherlock's gaze inches back to Mary, blip confirmed. Mary rubs her temple tiredly at the transparently immature and antagonistic subtext. 

John takes his leave to join Mrs. Davenport by the proximate refreshment table, and as he brushes by Sherlock's shoulder he says in a low voice, “You put her in Mary’s dress. That’s nice touch.”

“She didn’t want to waste money on a gown. I’m not intentionally doing it John, it’s just happenstance,” Sherlock explains defensively.

“So you’re aware of it, then. The… de ja vu,” he says playfully, like he's finally gone off the bend. 

Sherlock grabs his arm and looks at him harshly. “John, it’s not as though you’re never going to see her again!” he says roughly, breaking out of a whisper. He wants the shake the nonsense out of him- this unconscious association between Mary's death and Mary leaving him now.

“Spare me your concern. I have champagne,” he replies blandly, holding the glass he's swiped off the mantle near eye-level. Then he brushes past his brunet counterpart, treading over to the assortment of wines to fill it.


	8. 9

“If anyone has reason for these two not to wed, speak now or forever hold your peace,” is not usually something the pastor feels compelled to say, however on this particular occasion, he hesitates to preside with an official announcement of matrimony because he detects the presence of hell in the room. The question, of course, is met with silence, but this particular silence speaks much louder than words.

Residing on the far right of the attendants, Mrs. Davenport’s sharp, liquid steel eyes narrow dangerously on the priest, her arms stiffly crossed. The fingers of her right hand rap incessantly on the bend of her left elbow, drumming against the grey satin material of her garb, poised to a tempo. Her demeanour, pronounced by her chipped shoulders and tense frame, exudes such hostility even her husband feels uncomfortable seated next to her. Mrs. Davenport’s tongue is clipped, but her mind is raging to the sound of her pulse in her head, contemplating if there is _any_ way, at _all,_ that she can design Mary’s assassination, without Sherlock finding out.

Located on the far left periphery, John, armed with his friendly aid the champagne glass, glares with equal ammunition at the priest. The glass, on second thought, is perhaps not so friendly because it has done nothing to curb his pained suffering, and has rather exacerbated it by the look of things. His expression, tight-jawed and menacingly humourless, demands tiredly, impatiently, and plainly of the priest, _why do you plague us with a question you already know the answer to?_ _There is no arbitration nor reconciliation nor reparations to be had, the decision has been made to engage in this cold and silent war for the rest of our lives. Don’t prolong the inevitable._  His spine rests ramrod straight against the backboard of the pew, his shoulders squared to a tee, and arms barred standoffishly, rigid in every respect with the exception of the delicacy with which he holds his glass. Now that he’s seated, one trouser leg draped over the other, the seam of his jacket is parted under strain so that a sliver of the oxblood interior lining is visible. Combined with his burgundy vest, tie, and pocketed handkerchief, the whole attire bleeds with hidden red, and seems to betray his true colours.

Sherlock, however, isn’t glaring or even looking, for that matter, as he is more fascinated by his recently filed nails. Seated conveniently in the middle of both hell zones, he detects Mrs. Davenport’s thought waves and looks up casually, if not dazedly, drawn out of his manicure reverie. He then smiles at her indignation with patronizing sympathy, as if to answer in the negatory. No matter the rate at which the cogs of her mind turn, his are infinitely faster. As long as he lives, Mary lives, and as much as Mrs. Davenport would bite at the chance the rid the world of another homosexual, as he has been tacitly labeled, that would require her outsmarting him yet again. Pity that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was the closest thing I could find to what John is wearing. But Sherlock is still wearing this.
> 
>  
> 
>   


	9. 10

The after-party follows in the reception area, where Mary and Nigel are talking to their friends, one of which that claims Mary was the girl who used to beat Nigel up in secondary.

“That was _one time_ , Danny,” Nigel corrects him exasperatedly.

 

Sherlock, trekking across the expanse of glimmering hardwood with his hands in his trouser pockets, passes Nigel by and encounters the elusive Mr. Davenport, whom piques his interest.

“Hello Wallace. I don’t think we’ve spoken yet,” Sherlock glances at Mrs. Davenport’s much milder counterpart. The man wears rectangular, cinereous half-frames around his celeste irises, and is marked by Norwegian-decent, platinum-blonde hair. He wears a grey three-piece suit that complements his wife’s dress.

“Sorry,” he says, looking a little fazed. “If my wife sees me talking to you she might completely lose it,” he says curtly, to Sherlock's surprise.

“Look, I don’t wish her wrath on anybody, not even you,” Mr. Davenport adds in what is supposed to be an attempt at mitigation and plods off, leaving Sherlock a little aghast. What is it with these people? Maybe they think he exudes AIDS.

 

Sherlock disinterestedly resumes his trek and catches a glimpse of his better half poised by the alcohol reserves. John is tolerantly bored and leaning languidly against the wall in his trim suit, hands relegated to his double besom pockets, front panels misaligned under the strain and falling asymmetrically over his waist, sloping off from the wall. The slightly disheveled state of his jacket suggests some level intoxication, however his overall appearance- from his posture to his steady gaze- betrays artful control and composure. So the tousled look is more likely a product of emotional disturbance, or of his newly-adopted philosophy of not giving a shit.

Sherlock decides to join him and stands abreast his partner, observing the celebration from the outskirts as the semi-pariahs that they are. “I think I’m the only parent here who’s actually in a celebratory mood. And I don’t even like weddings,” Sherlock mentions amidst the chatter.

“Hm. You know, that’s not very surprising, seeing that you’re _not_ a parent. This probably feels like a vacation to you,” John says with a feigned conversational tone, contesting tolerance and annoyance giving his voice an uplifting lilt.

 

Sherlock gives him an underhand glare, a sudden spurt of razor blue that John sees but fails to observe.

“Do you ever grow weary of stating the obvious?” Sherlock inquires with a aloof edge to his voice, pouring himself his poison of choice.

“What?”

“First, it was ‘I’m not gay’ now it’s ‘you’re not a parent’. You know you only have to say things once, to produce an effect,” Sherlock informs him with patronizing didacticism, “After that it’s just moot.”

“Hold on a second. Are you saying, now, after _ten-something years_ ,” John clarifies, checking to see he’s hearing the detective correctly, “that you are not, after all, her father?”

“Holy mother of god. Is that what you thought?” Sherlock remarks in feigned disbelief, taking a draft of sparkling wine.

“Sherlock, this is not funny,” John tells him warily.

“Is it not? I find it hysterical- Mrs. Davenport was the only one who noticed.” Observing the two elder Davenports across the hall, he smirks at what must be an inside joke only he gets, as John isn't likewise amused. John’s breathing slows with building rage, and he clenches his left hand resolutely.

 

“Sherlock, it has been twenty, years. ” he breathes, eyes severe, dark, unforgiving ultramarine, “Her entire lifetime- she has grown up, believing you, believing that you are who you said, that you are her parent.  _You cannot disown that now_.” His inhales briskly, audibly vexed, clenching his teeth so that his jawbone flexes.

Sherlock playfully shoots him a half-lidded gaze that wishes to know why-ever-not.

And John is helpless to respond, never feeling quite as pinned down as he has now. The man feels no remorse, what means has John of explaining it to him?

 

 

“No John,” Sherlock resumes in triumph,“to be someone’s father you actually have to be their father, if that makes sense.  A father is a _blood-relative,_ designated by the donation of genetic material to the physiological constitution of his child or chil _dren_. If you cannot not satisfy that simple condition, no matter what you do, you will never be their father,” Sherlock replies with the dispassionate boredom one might read a dictionary with, because that’s essentially what he’s doing.

“It’s a facile enough definition but there is no leeway in what it is. There is no separate, softer definition to accommodate soppy sentimental ideas like adoptive parents, same-sex parents, or anything of the like,” he rambles, his voice becoming derisively maudlin and trite. John swallows painfully, listening.

“That being said, if you are in fact, someone’s father, it counts for very little. It just means— what? That they supplied you with half your non-mitochondrial DNA?” Sherlock laughs, “It doesn’t imply a relationship, nor an obligation to one thereof, it just means that you have fulfilled your basic purpose of reproducing and congratulations is in order.”

 

He turns to glance at John and sees the look on John’s face. It's condemning. “Oh, don’t look like that,” he sighs tiredly and turns back to face the hall.

 

“Facts are facts,” he says in a pristine display of rigidity, his voice a growing crescendo of volume, his burning blue, iron gaze piercing through the crowd.

“They need not be reiterated because they are always there, always in supremacy to what you think or say, always in triumph over our petty little debates of who loves who and what matters to what; so you are freed of the need to repeat yourself into oblivion, John, because _no_ , as aforementioned on this day, twenty years ago, I am not her father, nor am I your spouse.”

 

 

John has listened carefully, arms clasped behind his back. He waits, letting the words settle and do their worst. He's not surprised, of course, he knew Sherlock remembered.

“This is what you did with Janine, ” John decides to say, his voice controlled, cold, and hard. _Only now its my daughter,_ he thinks.

“You made her fall in love with you so that you could use a limited-access elevator.”

“Janine was for a case John.”

“And what was this for?” John retorts with brusque inertia, the words quietly forming an accusative, raging _snap_.

 

And it seems, for a once, that John has pulled the rug from beneath Sherlock’s feet. The brunet looks as though John’s knocked the wind out of him, with shocked and crystal-clear eyes that portray a child innocence John hardly recognizes. But then he smiles, lithe lips closing and curving upward. His vibrant, sky-tinted irises gleam at John with underhand, devilish cleverness, his regal features resuming their constant, graceful, unerring mask of dissemblance.

“You look very handsome John,” Sherlock says.

John’s mind is blown. Possibly broken. “What?”

“No really. Take a look in the mirror,” Sherlock says, and he places his hand on John’s head, swivels him to face the reflective, glass window behind them. Then, with all the composure and fluidity of movement at his disposal, Sherlock saunters off, leaving the dumbfounded soldier in view of his own portrait for god knows what reason.


	10. 11

Mary slowly spins around, centrifugal force infusing her wispy layers of gown and with a slight drag, as she gradually reconciles with the reality of her current situation. She has found herself stranded in a positive nightmare.

Everyone within viewing radius is dancing traditional waltz. Her eyes pan over the room and finally come to a rest on Nigel dancing with Mrs. Davenport, where the nagging dread in the back of her skull escalates into full-blown panic.

  
“You’re wishing I’d taught you now, aren’t you?”

  
Mary turns around to see Sherlock, the only solitary figure visible for miles against backdrop of the dancing couples. He wears his customary know-it-all smile, eyes a warm light teal, silver necktie and vest agleam with overhead light. While his dark mop of curls displays a photogenic array of tonality, his frock coat is submerged in black cast shadows in the high-contrast. His arm bent and attached to his waist, his weight is shifted to a side. Sherlock stands there, in matching attire, looking so insufferably full of himself, that Mary skips straight past relief and goes straight to damage mitigation.

“Now. You have to teach me now,” she decides.

“Sorry, what was that?” he replies.

She sighs and tries to be patient with his childish antics. “Please?” she asks.

“Come again? I’ve gotten hard of hearing over the years.”

Mary exhales, astounded. “Can you stop with the ‘I told you so’? You’ve had a lifetime of that. Just teach me already--” she tells him, stepping forward with a playful inertia that nudges Sherlock back a step as she joins their hands to mimic the arrangement everyone around them has assumed, raised and clasped together. Sherlock catches her hands in his and rebounds a nudge forward, regaining their footing with a natural, unthinking effortlessness.

“Oh, is  _that_  what you were saying?” Sherlock remarks in baffled amazement, smiling down at her with a glance of overtly-fond, radiant turquoise, “I thought you’d never ask.”


	11. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, in this chapter and ensuing ones, the camera switches back and forth between two perspectives (John walking and Sherlock dancing), while also incorporating a _**flashback** _. I'm sorry it's complicated but I think in movie format unfortunately. Think of it as a three-part ensemble.

 

 

__

John studies his reflection but all he sees is a man who would be drunk if he wasn’t so pissed off. He chuckles at how transparently his bitterness shows, from the slight touch of discord at every clean-pressed edge, to the subliminal colouring of every line of inner trim. He takes off his jacket and sets it on a chair.

_**Copy my movements.** _

 

 

__

"It's a really straightforward series of steps,” Sherlock explains, looking down at their feet as they step to the waltz, “How something so simplistic it's thought to be romantic is beyond me, but there you have it.” He looks up, meeting Mary’s forest green eyes.

"Don't you think it's romantic?" she asks curiously, because that’s the impression she’s gotten thus far.

 

 

__

_Don't you think it's romantic?_  John hears Mary’s voice resonate from the hallway on his right and looks up to the source of the sound.

 _"I don't think anything is romantic,"_  Sherlock’s voice replies dogmatically.

 _"Then why do you like dancing,"_ Mary’s voice echoes.

 

_**Do what I do.** _

 

John sips a half-glass of gold wine, and decides on a bored whim to seek out their voices. He stalks off toward the hall, taking full-length, militaristic strides. He turns a corner and proceeds down a corridor parallel to the length of the ballroom. As he proceeds, the voices grow louder, occasionally waving in and out as though they are in sinusoidal motion.

 _“Music and movement are numbers that organise into algorithms as per chaos theory,”_ _Sherlock speaks elaborate nonsense, resounding down the tunnel._

 _“Is that why you like John? Because he organises into algorithms?”_  Mary’s voice is bubbly as though she’s resisting the urge to laugh at his ridiculousness.

_**Alright, you got it?** _

_**Do it again. No, no, this foot goes here--** _

 

 _**"Don't look at** _ **** _** me ** _ _**\--!" Sherlock sighs tiredly, annoyed because John is gawking at Sherlock, who is so preoccupied with the inaccuracy of his footwork that he's actually deigned to kneel and manually reposition John's foot, "I'm not going to be there. Look at Mary."** _

_**Sherlock stands up, raising John's arms from his sides impatiently as he does. "Raise your arms like this; you're dancing with her."** _

 

 

__

Sherlock isn’t good at noticing when people are making fun of him, but he does know that when Mary uses John’s first name like he does, she’s psychoanalyzing him.

"What are you getting at?" he asks his gaze narrow, crystal-blue, serpentine curls of dark fringe magnifying the sharpness of his features.

"Just trying to see if I can make you trip," Mary informs him cheekily, though her hazel expression is completely innocent.

“If you’re trying to get me to admit that I’m human, you have another thing coming,” he tells her coolly.

“But you are though.”

_“But you are though.”_

 

Sherlock stares at her as they rotate in space, undecided, his breath caught in a sort of amused, standoffish silence.

 

 “Yes,”  _“Yes,”_ he seizes some obscure off-beat moment to admit, after the somewhat awkward pause. All of his movements are perfectly synchronized due to a superior sense of rhythm, yet somehow this singular response manages to evade all that powerful machinery and emerge disjointed.

“But we can’t let anyone know that,” he includes as an addendum.

“You let me know that,” she returns, eyes narrower and curious, not quite following the logic.

“Yes, well. You’re my daughter. I can tell you anything. I have plenty of collateral- like how you can’t dance—”

 

 

 

John advances until he meets a final corner that redirects him toward the ballroom again. As he rounds the bend, he can see glimpses Sherlock and Mary through a doorframe several paces ahead, dancing together at the far periphery of the crowd. Sherlock’s broad-shouldered, open-chested posture is prideful and robust, accentuated by the lines of his suit. His long strides span the floor in graceful, deft motion, with a swiftness that ostentatiously brandishes the meticulousness and acuity of mind behind it. His feet take on various, fine-tuned, outcast angles as he steps, glossy, black dress shoes on mahogany. The synchrony is unerringly beautiful-- it's art. He’s completely absorbed by his daughter, whose satin gown whirls at his guidance, spiraling as he turns them round. And then they stumble.

 _“What was that? You’re as bad as your father,”_ Sherlock giggles, out of view.

 _“Shut up.”_  

Sherlock’s amused, baritone voice sets John off-kilter, disorienting so, not unlike a blow to the head. John’s pace slows, and he absentmindedly drags a hand along the wall.

 

_**“You’re hurting my head John.”** _

_**Sherlock rubs his temple, as he is forced to watch John arduously repeat the entirety of the dance sequence, as he had previously demonstrated himself.** _

_**“Oh, well I’m sorry if my horrendous dancing causes you insufferable brain damage—“** _

__

_**“It’s supposed to be effortless..”** _

_**John laughs at that. That’s very good, he thinks.** _

_**“You can’t expect that from me.” He says with a profoundly amused, knowing smile.** _

__

_**“Why on earth not?”** _

_**“Because!” John almost laughs incredulously.** _

_**He looks at Sherlock, who honestly expects him be as brilliant as him,** _

_**with an expression of thorough amusement, helplessness, and frustration.** _

_**“I’m not a** _ _**natural ** _ _**.” John says finally, resolutely, hoping at least that much makes sense.** _

__

_**“Not a—?!” Sherlock starts, in complete shock.** _

_**John’s statement doesn’t seem to clarify things.** _

_**In fact, it only serves to confound him more.** _

_**“Why would you say that?” he snaps, as though John has insulted dancing itself.** _

__

_**Sherlock storms over to him, with a strikingly ominous and temperamental atmosphere, his dark fringe a bleeding smear of ebony, his brilliant eyes a wide arcs of neon blue. In a spur of passion, Sherlock doesn’t seem to realize what he’s doing, their hands are laced together.** _ **Sherlock’s frame towers so dominatingly close, John has to lean back slightly, chin withdrawn.** _**“Why would you say anything about this isn’t** _ **** _** natural ** _ _**?”  He demands to know so earnestly, but John is at a loss for words.** _


	12. Chapter 12

  
**_(Um.. Sherlock?)_ **

**_John stammers._ **

 

**_(Hm?)_ **

**_Sherlock hums his attention._**

**_John is leaning backwards as far as possible without falling over, and still Sherlock is waging war on his tiny allotment of personal space, their heads bowed and almost close enough to be in contact. Only whispers are exchanged._ **

**_(You’re aware that..) John swallows (You’re uh..)_ **

**_He looks at their intertwined hands out of the corner of his eye, flexing his fingers._ **

****

**_(Yes.)_ **

**_Sherlock responds at a similar volume._ **

**_(What-What are we doing?)_ **

**_John says awkwardly as Sherlock nudges forward and John reflexively falls back._ **

**_(Self-explanatory.)_ **

**_Sherlock replies, continuing the motion, his voice soft and silver._ **

**_(But I.. it’s not..)_ **

**_John fumbles self-consciously. In successive steps, their feet begin to move in tandem, John’s hesitant, unwitting, Sherlock’s graceful, coaxing._ **

**_(Don’t fret.)_ **

**_Sherlock consoles him while keeping the calm edge of a command, his hand encasing John’s._ **

**_(Sherlock-_ **

**_John hesitates, voice a touch anxious, uncomfortable._ **

**_(You’re doing much better.)_ **

**_Sherlock says soothingly, quite a different image from the person who was tearing his hair out a minute ago._ **

“Why can’t other people know?” Mary’s voice contends for John’s focus, traveling down the confines of the cloister and its pilastered walls as the passage redirects to the mainroom. Slender windows that run along the corridor cast cold light against the canopy overhead. The ethereal, dissipating light filters down only halfway, creating a dim, haunted effect in contrast with the warm lighting emanating from cathedral centre.  
“Know what?”  
“What you just said.”  
Sherlock doesn’t respond, and Mary heaves a sigh which suggests Sherlock is doing something insolent, like feigning dumb.  
“Why can’t they know that you’re human— that you actually like people?” her voice echoes.  
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I actually like people.”  
“You know what I mean. Why can’t they know that you like us, or in particular him?”  
“I have a reputation to uphold,” Sherlock replies matter-of-factly, quietly composed and probably smug.  
“You mean that thing you’re constantly trying to destroy?" she asks with a grin.

**_“Like this, John.” Simon rings his fingers around John’s wrist, lifting John’s hand in midair, and takes a step forward. He steps into the male role, leading him backward and placing an arm around John’s waist to demonstrate the part. As he bridges the gap between them, his voice sounds against John’s ear._ **

"You’re not actually afraid he’ll catch on?” The words come unwittingly and without warning, producing an air of astonished silence. Sherlock’s face betrays no expression, staring at Mary intently while his mind whirs in the background. Mary catches a hint of something that suggests he’s trying not to laugh, which grows increasingly obvious, until his lips begin to crack into a faint but devilish smile.

“Yes,” he decides with sudden conviction, “Terrified.”

"I dread to think what would happen if he discovered my little pet crush on him, Mary. So much so that I hardly know what to do with myself. Help me, Mary.”

Mary looks flatly at him, unamused. Apparently he’s resorted to sarcasm, the classic form of deflection.

“You act like you’re above all this, but you’re really not,” she retorts in a don’t fly too close to the sun tone.

“God forbid he doesn’t return my feelings. I don’t know if I can take that kind of rejection.” he says sadly, with a a set of unconsolable eyes. He’s very good at acting, which naturally, sociopaths are. Mary looks exasperated beyond repair.

“Sherlock I think you are brilliant, wonderful and perfect all the same, but you are literally impossible sometimes.”

“What makes you say that?” he asks in all earnestness, “Not that that’s not an accurate description-”

“You’re in love with him, do you understand?” She interrupts, attempting to dumb it down so that even he can understand, but it's all too apparent that no, he does not. She would be shaking him by the shoulders if her hands weren’t occupied, “Not all the satire in the world can mask that, so quit pretending you don’t and don’t laugh—” she says, getting worked up because he's smiling like a cheshire cat.

“Now, Mary," he chides her, "Are you really going to accuse me of joking when I’ve just poured my heart out to you?”

“Yes, and somehow I don’t find this half as amusing as you do.”

“You wound me Mary. I’m painstakingly serious. What would you have me do? Recite poetry?“

“You don’t know any romantic poetry.”

“Are you so convinced of that? It’s disheartening Mary, how you think I do not bleed.”

“Is that what I think or you think?”

“If I were in love with him, might I not say something like O brawling love, O loving hate, O any thing, of nothing first create,” he starts reciting Shakespeare. Mary considers throwing in the towel.

“O heavy lightness, serious vanity- Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms,” his voice reverberates down the tunnel vault and against John’s eardrums as he fades in and out of the present.

**_“Just like this,” Simon says instructively, drawing John toward him by the shoulder. The bend of his elbow forms a backward triangle as he pulls John’s hand to cup the small of his back. His hand still lingers against John’s, his touch is curled around John’s fingers, clutching the digits together._**

“ _I think you make a terrible drama queen. I don’t know why Dad was saying otherwise_ ,” Mary says as John walks slowly, numbly forward, preoccupied and distracted.

Seemingly in the interest of proving Mary wrong, Sherlock weathers on, sounding jarringly black-hearted and broken-hearted at the same time, until the two tonalities reconcile at the last note. “ _Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health- Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!_ _This love feel I, that feel no love in this._

 _I_ _have a soul of lead, So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. Under love’s heavy burden do I sink._ ”

He ends there, with a slowness on the last consonant. John feels like it sounds bizarre, yet vaguely beautiful, and can’t discern precisely why. Gradually, he realizes, it’s because he’s gotten the iambic pentameter right, so that it sounds like a beating heart. He might have thought it strange, if glimpses of the two of them dancing together weren’t stranger, growing increasingly stranger, reminiscent, prophetic, as he approaches. His feet are lagging slightly, hesitating, and everything drags to a slow, feeling unreal like a dream, a distant memory.

**_“John..” Sherlock is murmuring, louder volumes rendered obsolete by the closeness. His fingers press under John’s chin, commanding his gaze up. “Look up.” Lifting his head, following his fingers, John obeys and meets the his eyes. He forgets the world around them, the venetian blinds, the dated, fleur de lys wallpaper, the Persian carpet, once bold-red beneath their feet. His whole field of awareness is captured by just the two of them, isolated in time and space, dancing, which has suddenly become as easy as breathing, and so facile he isn’t really aware of the motions his body is going through._ **

****

Mary realizes Sherlock isn't actually bad at dramatization. It’s because the whole recitation is dripping with so much satire that it sounds faux and awful.

“You’re making fun of yourself Sherlock,” she tells him lamely.

“You think?” Sherlock pretends to be self-conscious, taking a graceful side-step into fourth position so that they swerve around, “that’s kind of embarrassing. I didn’t realize Rowen and I were so alike.” Sarcasm. Sarcasm. Sarcasm. Mary rolls her eyes, needing a break from all the sarcasm, and frankly wishes she could face-palm right now.

“Romeo. It’s Romeo. Like romantic, romance, romanticism, Romeo.”

“Oh,” Sherlock realizes with a pleasant, you-learn-something-everyday tone, as though the association never occurred to him but still kind of makes sense. In any case, the point remains there exist some subtle differences between Sherlock and _Romeo_ , as he’s called, that are worthy of acknowledgement.

“Sometimes it blows my mind how you even got to this point.”

“Which point?”

“This,” she says, looking pointedly at the two of them, dancing. Sherlock blinks at her blankly.

“Having a daughter,” she elaborates, semi-baffled. Sherlock quirks his head to the side.

“Married!” she blurts at him finally.

“Oh,” he remarks with carefree nonchalance, like he’d casually forgotten about their alleged matrimony, but considers it forgivable because it wasn’t really that important anyway, “I think there was a long conversation about tax evasion or something. John must’ve seen things my way.”

Mary looks up at him seriously, with a set of ultramarine irises that look just like John’s and and have a profound effect on Sherlock.

 

 **_Sherlock’s thumb is touched parallel against his jawline, index curled under his chin_** **_._ **

_“Will you tell him? Sometime before we’re all dead and getting dissected by premed students?”_

**_“As I said you have to_ **

_“Tell him?”_ Sherlock doesn’t quite follow. 

**_Keep your eyes fixed on.._ **

Mesmerized by the pair of them as they come into full view, John saunters forward until he comes to a still in the doorframe, light reddening the breast of his waistcoat, the mélange of grey and copper in his hair. He shifts his weight against the wall and watches, looking genuinely flummoxed at the sight of them.

**_Your partner, in this case.._ **

“oh, you want me to tell him that I love him?” it occurs to Sherlock, fitting the pieces together, "John is an organ donor- you don't suppose he'll be there?"

**_Me.”_ **

Mary breathes with relief that he understands.

“That would be too cruel a joke, even for me,” Sherlock says coyly with a self-satisfied smirk, stepping forward, Mary stepping back. A smile betrays her and the purportedly serious topic of conversation, flickering at the edges of her mouth.

“Don’t be sassy,” she says. Sherlock abides and mends his ways.

“I don’t need to tell him anything. Everything he needs to know, he already knows,” Sherlock states nondescriptly, taking a backstep in concordance with the give and take of the waltz.

“What is this? You sound like somebody’s paying you to keep you quiet,” she laughs, “Has this game of keeping yourselves in the dark warped into some sort of giant conspiracy?”

“No,” Sherlock replies softly in rebuttal.

“Is it Mycroft?” she whispers.

“No,” Sherlock glares apathetically at the feeble attempt a joke, which, clearly, is in very poor taste. “I just don’t need to tell him. It’s not..”

 

Mary sees him scrambling for a properly worded explanation, and tries to fill in for the poor, tongue-tied know-it-all. “You’re not going to say it’s not-“ she begins to say when

“-Relevant-” he interrupts, cut-and-dry, awkwardly off-beat again.

“-like that..” Mary trails to a stop, stunned by the sudden bluntness of the interruption.

“-About that,” he corrects her. He is now in stark contrast to the self-pitying Shakespearean character he was playing earlier, donning the identity of his natural self, detached and perhaps a bit ruthless in his general lack of feeling.

 

“It’s not about,” he continues unfluently, searching for words like he’s speaking a different language with an unfamiliar and perplexing grammar structure, "Being _recognized_.”

Mary looks surprised with him when he finally gets to the end of the sentence.

“It’s about him _,_ ” he says just softly enough to miss. It comes across distracted, as some off-beat, stray thought that Mary barely manages to catch. While Mary struggles to discern whether she heard him right, Sherlock redirects his attention to her, returning with improved clarity and diction.

“It makes little sense in telling him, or asking him, for anything, when in the context of everything he’s given me there is little more I can, feasibly..  ask him for.”

Mary looks confused at what sounds like some vague riddle he’s concocted, and Sherlock sees the need to elaborate, as inarticulate as he may be on the subject.

“Your father has had a painful history, more painful than mine, and still he, saved me from a worser one,” he tells her, trying to summarize it concisely and sensibly, “I am indebted to him.”

Mary doesn’t know to what ‘painful history’ he’s referring, or why he should choose to say he’s indebted to John. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock looks at her with a set of struggling, green eyes, like he’s making a huge sacrifice in what he’s about to say, but his eyes wander toward the passage doorway on their right and he stops short.

“Mary the reason I can say I’m human is only because of-“

John is standing in the archway a few paces away, leaning languidly against his good shoulder with a champagne glass in the opposite hand. His head is tilted into the doorframe in contemplation, one hand sheathed in a pocket, one leg crossed over the other comfortably. He’s watching them idly, distantly, like a father might watch from a distance as his children unwrap their gifts on Christmas eve. He looks picturesque, dignified, and just a touch devious with the violent burgundy of his vest contrasting against flaxen blonde hair.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chap better than no chap am I rite?

John looks so seamless, so perfectly in his element, while Sherlock looks like a deer caught in the headlights, or a cat caught in the engine, as is probably the more accurate visual. The brunet stares, pupils gaping burrows in the translucence of his irises, neck, angle of his head, and gaze all fixed attentively on the medic. John stands several paces away, far enough for Mary not to notice him over her shoulder, but close enough to be well within hearing range.

 “What was  ** _that_**?” he hears Mary remark with an astonished tone of voice, her attention directed at their feet.

Sherlock’s eyes jump to the ground, where he has made a misstep severe enough to set himself temporarily off-balance. He realizes that he’s stumbled, as a result of not paying attention, and is teetering on the proverbial ledge, about to _fall_.

“Nothing,” he says shortly and quickly plants his misplaced step back on solid ground, instantly regaining his footing and smoothing over the minor infraction.

“You messed up,” she realizes, the novelty of an epiphany resonating in her voice.

“I did not,” he says to her, attention scattered, still distracted by John and breaking in and out of eye contact with him. He still alluringly looks like hell, only now, he seems to have gotten even better at wearing it, subtler, darker, a chaotic mixture of emotion, pressed to a smooth under formal clothing.

“You actually  _tripped_ ,” she says, looking at him like the apocalypse has struck, because for all intensive purposes, it has. The comment unnerves him enough to finally tear his eyes away from John permanently, resuming the dance and conversation with full focus.

“Alright,  _you_  can shut up now,” Sherlock throws her words back at her with a smirk, though he is clearly more annoyed with himself than his dance partner. As they continue waltzing, he directs most of his attention to Mary, but is continuously aware of John’s presence beyond the corners of his vision, and absently wonders how much of their conversation John might have heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the award for best  
> -deer in the headlights look goes to john  
> -cat in the engine look goes to sherlock


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your reading pleasure:  
> [ _Why Your Spouse Shouldn't Be Your Best Friend_](http://blog.themarriageandfamilyclinic.com/2013/10/why-your-spouse-shouldnt-be-your-best.html)  
>  There's always going to be goons on the internet, but finding one that embodies the absolute opposite of what you think is a rare find! Apparently this guy is a counselor, while I know absolutely nothing about humans and relationships, but I will be arguing against this perspective anyways. Enjoy~  
> 

_**I’m your.. best.. friend?** _

But John is much too distracted by something else to be particularly concerned with Sherlock’s metaphorical little trip-up. While everyone else carries on naturally, John is, in effect, swept sideways by the phenomenon of the two of them dancing. He's completely floored by what he’s seeing namely because he’s seen it before. John can remember so vividly the same steps being taught to him for his wedding that sometimes he sees Sherlock dancing with Mary and other times he sees Sherlock dancing with himself, at their flat, behind closed doors and drawn curtains.

 

 _**John is vaguely aware of what his feet are doing, mostly he's just staring at Sherlock, who's staring at him, who's staring at Sherlock, who's staring at him— Point being they can’t stop staring at each other as if in some sort of endless recursive function, like fractals, like glass, bouncing off each other’s reflections, building a** _ _**tunnel of mirrors within mirrors into the depths, ad infinitum, dizzyingly never-ending. There’s no way to climb out, the vortexes of his irises like quick sand; it feels impossible to look away. John doesn’t normally let himself stare blatantly at people, by convention, unless it’s to inspect their corneas, gauge pupillary reflex, etcetera. It’s a peculiar feeling, staring deep into another’s eyes is usually only something lovers get to do (and to be entirely honest, he’d actually never even really looked at Mary like this..) but by Sherlock’s mandate, so do they.** _

_**He doesn’t entirely know how he’s doing what he’s doing, but dancing together, not knowing where he’s going, is a vaguely familiar sensation. John feels as though it’s a slightly more elaborate, circuitous version of chase, running around in circles, nonsensically, for the hell of it. Chasing Sherlock is essentially effortless, it’s what he’s always doing in real life anyway, blazing through the tunnels of London on Sherlock’s coattails, close on his heels. What John was trying to before was confusingly abstract in comparison, not unlike wandering about, lost, not knowing where to look or what he’s looking for. The game had suddenly become so easy, so physically** _ **tangible** _**when Sherlock had stepped in, lacing their digits together so carelessly, and lifted his chin like that, claiming his full attention.**_ _ **Sherlock completed the circuit through the channel of their hands, became a fixed point in a spinning room, and now the detective has him, immobilized in motion, the chaos made gone.**_

 _ **The game of keeping up with him is immersive and fun, a mosaic of matching Sherlock’s evasions with advances and sidesteps with sidesteps, mirroring him in perfect unison so that the eye contact never breaks. He’s like a kite, sailing one way, then the next. Naturally, you just follow, don’t let go. Each time Sherlock tries to steer away, John** _ _**curiously** _ _**looks over a shoulder** _ _**,** _ _**t** _ _**urns to meet him again on pure instinct, transfixed by sight of that aquamarine gaze, by those ever-soft eyes that feel as gratifying as falling into bed.**_

 

John can’t stop staring at the two of them, replaying the memory in his head, and seeing Sherlock in the same spot doing the same thing twenty years later. It’s as though lightening has struck twice.

It occurs to John that it’s incredibly _not-normal_ , like everyone is treating it, like Sherlock is treating it, like John himself is treating it. Spending the decades taking care of you, then taking care of your child, is not something a _friend_ does, nor a _best friend_ does, nor a _best man_ does. It’s something a..

something a…

Or if it is the action of only a friend, at the very least that should also make that friend, that best friend, that best man, something more— surely? Or if not even that, then what else is left, but to suspend what assumptions he has about the limitation of that term, to redefine the meaning of that word, friend. The dedication of so many days within months within years, piling on top of each other like brick and mortar into a steadily ascending tower, is, after all, an action that outlives many god-sanctified _marriages_ and yet, somehow calling Sherlock his friend doesn’t demote him, rather it dignifies that word, _friend_.

He stares up at that redoubtable, escalating tower with a slight pit in his stomach, a gnawing, quietly thundering sensation of de ja vu, so deeply stirring, speaking in volumes, all from so simple an action as a dance that, from a passing glance might not appear particularly remarkable at all— in fact, it _isn’t_ , to anyone in the room, but John. Not to Sherlock, who looks perfectly content in the present, and not to Mary, who’s convinced of the guise that he’s fulfilling his paternal duty, but it certainly hits John— seeing the decades connect in front of his eyes, the way he’s dancing with her, the spitting image of the way he danced with him, it hits him like a freight train with the weight of all those years. It’s not happenstance, not a coincidence, and certainly not by accident, that in the aftermath he’s still there, retracing the footsteps he made decades apart.


	15. Chapter 15

_**The light peaks between the closed curtains in the breeze, casting the chestnut furniture in various shades of sepia. The background whispers of shuffling of limbs and fabric, the ghosting of static from their soles rubbing along the carpet. Speaking seems unnecessary, when the ebb and flow of movement feels like a conversation itself. Sherlock’s green eyes weigh on his, reserved, commanding, and soft—**_  
  
_**But then they look at him funny, like they don’t understand him anymore.**_  
  
_**"What is it?" John is prompted to ask.**_  
  
_**"Oh, I just thought it was strange," Sherlock mutters, frowning. Then a pause. It’s a little backwards to see Sherlock looking at John in confusion and not the other way around.**_  
  
_**"I haven't taught you this variation yet," Sherlock admits reluctantly, like John’s one of those darn puzzles that he can’t solve. The record rips and everything halts.**_  
  
_**"Wait, what?" John becomes conscious of his movements and his limbs stop knowing what to do. He immediately lets go, breaking the quadrangle of their arms.**_  
  
_**"Oh,” Sherlock blinks, watching it all fall apart, “Should I not have said anything?"**_  
  
_**"No matter,” he smiles in any case, “You don't need to know variations. Just the basics should suffice. Well done, John. Shall we end there—? I have to go talk to the florist because your wife, John. She doesn’t know flowers," he huffs and walks off in pursuit of the doorway, pausing to take up his coat, “or color-theory, apparently, so I have to talk to the decorator, or proper serviette sensibilities so after that the caterer…”**_  
  
_**"Wait, but you didn't teach me anything," John says after him, coming out of what felt like a dream and realizing his mind has gone completely blank. “I don't know it— Any of it,” he says helplessly.**_  
  
_**"Oh, well, you must know it John,” Sherlock informs him with absolute certainty, coat folded over an arm, “I have a variety of mental powers at my disposal but I'm not telepathic."**_  
  
_**John feels unpleasantly disoriented, at a loss for what just happened.**_  
  
_**Sherlock pauses in the threshold, one foot out the door. He sees the lost look on his friend’s face and even though it hardly seems necessary, offers his hand again.**_

Nigel happens by them and Sherlock and Mary part ways, bride leaving to dance with the groom. Something inextricably subtle flashes across Sherlock’s face as their hands fall apart— just a fraction of a wince.

John’s self-control cracks in that split second and he steps forward on impulse, reaching for her. “Mary—“

“Oh hello John,” Sherlock beams, stepping in his way just as he’s about to start in their direction, “Did you want a dance as well? I’m afraid you just missed her,” he says as if he had no hand in it. “I think it best not to interrupt at this point but you can still dance with me if its all the same to you.”  
John is trying to stomach the sight of Mary dancing away with someone else and ignoring everything Sherlock is saying, until he gets to that last line, which succeeds in destroying John’s train of thought completely.

“Dance with you?” he says in surprise, “Sherlock, we’re in the middle of a crowd of people—“

  
Sherlock snaps his fingers with the realization and tsks. “Ah my apologies. I’d entirely forgotten you were self-conscious about these things.” It’s not a great leap for John to realize he is being manipulated right now, but of course, that’s a secondary issue.

“I’m not self-conscious.”

“No?”

“It’s just it would have certain.. implications. I don’t want people to think-“ it takes John all of two seconds to realize he doesn’t know where the rest of that sentence went.

“Don’t want people to think what?” Sherlock asks with genuine intrigue, handing John a perfectly benign question he has no means of answering. Sherlock is wearing this look of innocence that is borderline angelic and vaguely reminds John of a parable whose moral was that just because a person is beautiful doesn’t mean they aren’t evil.

Since John hasn’t managed to fill the silence with anything other than staring speechlessly, Sherlock proceeds to inform him, “Being overly concerned with what other people think is essentially the definition of self-consci—“

“Alright, alright, just shut up,” John joins their hands, realizing he’s making a scene of it and that not dancing in the middle of a ballroom would be much more awkward than dancing at this point. Sherlock looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting his demonic wiles to actually work.

 


	16. Pick Your Battleship

 

 ** _Heteronormative_**                                     ** _Antiromantic_**                                       ** _Homoromantic_**

 

  

        John Watson                                  Sherlock Holmes                                 Mary Watson-Holmes

 

 


End file.
